Unfinished Business
by E. S. Young
Summary: Dr. Crane didn't want to poison Rachel Dawes just because she was interfering with his deals with the mob. There was another reason, one that was much more...personal. Crane/Harley. A horror/humor/tragedy/romance.


**Unfinished Business**

Note: First off, this is definitely AU from _Fear and Malice_, especially since the Harley/Jonathan isn't even hinted at, as you will soon see. Secondly, this is what happens when a friend of mine and I are watching _Batman Begins_ and, at the scene where Rachel is waiting outside Falcone's cell at Arkham, right before Jonathan goes Scarecrow on her ass, the following conversation occurs:

Friend: Huh. Wonder why he had his glasses off?

ESY: Dunno.

Friend: It looks like he's in a hurry.

ESY: Yeah, like he had get there 'on time' or something.

Friend: Maybe he was experimentin.'

ESY: Yeah… [_Eyes widen._] Oh my God where's his sweater vest!?

Friend: [_Gasps._] Oh! I know! It explains everything!

ESY: What?

Friend: [_Matter-of-factly._] He was gettin' some.

ESY: …

Friend: From _Har_ley.

ESY: …

Friend: Aaand he left his sweater vest behind.

ESY: …well shit, you know he's nothing without the power of his sweater vest.

Friend: That's why he loses to the Goddamn Batman.

ESY: Oh, poor muffin…

Friend: Yep. And it's all Harley's fault.

And so, we now have this one-shot. Enjoy.

* * *

He had been waiting for this for a long time—too long. From the moment he first laid eyes on that twittering, blonde harpy, he had wanted to break her, crush that vibrant spirit in his grip, tear that accursed smile from her face and watch those delicate features contort in agony. And now he relished at the sight of her pitiful, beaten form huddled in a trembling mess at his feet. She was crying, pleading with him, begging for mercy with her child's eyes.

He sneered, both contemptuous and enthralled at the sight of her misery.

An arm shot out. Long, cold fingers encased her slender throat, two thumbs pressed against her windpipe. Life—her precious, young life was his. To control. To end. If he wanted.

What _he _wanted…

"What do you want, Jonny?" she had asked. The little fool…

Didn't she know? What he wanted…was to be the one to make her scream.

Lips twisting into a cruel smirk, he tightened his grip on her neck, breath hitching as her eyes grew wide with fright, holding her life in his hand for one second…two…three…four…

Then he dug his nails into her skin and flung her onto the couch. The dark leather creaked beneath them as he climbed on top of her, heart rate escalating when he saw her squirm.

He pinned her wrists at her sides, bringing one up to his mouth and lapping at her pulse. She whimpered.

"Please…Jonathan…"

"Please what?"

"_Please_…"

She was practically sobbing, now. He smiled maliciously and breathed into her ear:

"Are you _sca_red?"

She nodded, biting her lip hard.

"Say it."

"Yes," she choked out. "I-I am, _please_…"

His grin broadened as she arched into him, legs locked around his narrow waist. His want, her need. She really was a little fool, one with no idea what she had gotten herself into…

He leaned in, drawing out the moment, breath ghosting over her skin.

"Dr. Quinzel…_Harley_." He mocked her, ground out the childish epithet with heated contempt. "Harley Quin—"

**Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!**

He nearly leapt out of his skin and leapt off of the couch entirely, landing on the floor with a painful thud. The chic Oriental rug did nothing to cushion his fall, and he cringed, gasping a little.

"Are you okay, Jonny?" Harleen asked, sitting up, confused and concerned. She quickly switched on the Tiffany lamp beside his couch as he scoped out his office, glaring furiously at everything in sight until he discovered the source of the interruption.

There. On the desk. His cell phone. Screen illuminated, vibrating wildly. And _ringing._

He gritted his teeth at the noise.

In three quick, fluid strides, he had reached the desk. He snatched up the offending phone, very much wanting to strangle it, if not whoever was calling.

"This is Dr. Crane. I'm rather busy at the moment, so if you wouldn't mind making this quick—what? Why? …I already filed a report with— …She's on her way? For God's sake… Very well. When she arrives, send her to room 266 and tell her to wait for me outside. If she asks, tell her I will be there momentarily; she interrupted me while I was tending to some…personal matters." He ended the call, glancing over his shoulder at Harleen, who was sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs, face flushed, naked save for a pair of pink satin underwear and his sweater vest.

"Sorry," he explained at her questioning look. "There's something that needs taken care of."

"What is it?" He gave her a distinct, sidelong look of disdain and watched as her eyes widened with comprehension. "Ohh…your favorite person again?"

"What was it you called her?"

"A nosey bitch with no fashion sense," she replied promptly, making him smirk as he slipped on his pants.

"That was it," he murmured and headed over toward the couch, buttoning up his white and blue-striped dress shirt as he did, tie looped around his neck.

"What does she want now?" Harleen asked, sounding both sulky and curious at once.

With a sigh, he sat down, watching her as she reached over to fix his tie. The happy housewife seeing her husband off to work. Hardly. For a moment, he was reminded of his mother and how Harleen was so very unlike her. He considered that a good thing. No doubt his voluntarily stupid and puritanical mother would have been appalled at the thought of an intelligent woman who actually enjoyed having sex—and with a man who wasn't her husband. Even more shocking was the idea that Harleen was aroused by fear.

To think: She liked to be scared, and he liked to scare people. How disturbingly perfect.

"Miss Dawes was less than pleased to learn that I had Carmine Falcone transferred to Arkham," he told her, absentmindedly brushing a few strands of hair out of her eyes. Honestly, how she tolerated that… "She's decided to pay a visit, no doubt to give me a piece of her mind."

"Assuming she has any to give," Harleen quipped in a cool, wry manner that was strikingly similar to his own. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch.

"Come here."

Smiling softly, she leaned forward and he gently took a hold of her chin, rubbing his thumb over a smear of lipstick. His fingers glided down to feel her pulse: much slower now, no longer the frantic, hummingbird's wing pace that it had been before.

Damn that…that nosey bitch. He knew that he was more eloquent than that, but it really was the only way to describe Rachel Dawes.

"I'm going to take care of her," he said at last, knowing that he wouldn't need to elaborate. "Then, I'm coming back _here_ to deal with _you_."

She leaned into his touch, grinning in a hungry, malicious way that most would have never expected from someone who looked so sweet and innocent.

"Should I be _scared?_" she asked him softly, leaning in so that their foreheads touched, lips not even half an inch apart. He swallowed, heart racing.

"Yes."

Her mouth pressed against his and he couldn't even blame her for it, not when he had been the one to move, not when he wasn't pulling away but drawing her closer, his hands pressing desperately against the small of her back. She was almost in his lap at this point, having seized the front of his shirt in one fist, while her other hand played with the curls at the nape of his neck. And all the while he was cursing her for being so tantalizing and cursing himself for giving in to temptation, but most of all he was cursing Rachel Dawes for being such a meddlesome, sanctimonious, pushy, idealistic, law-abiding, closed-minded, supercilious, _nosey little bitch_—

He wrenched himself away, gasping for breath.

_Damn her_. And he wasn't sure if he meant Miss Dawes or Harleen. The former was forcing him to put his desire on hold, but the latter had caused that desire in the first place. Yet looking down at the little blonde, seeing the hurt and slightly embarrassed expression on her face, he knew that, no matter how much she frustrated him, it would be easier to forgive her.

Infuriated and aroused, his arms still encircling her waist, he drew her in again, one hand cradling her head to his chest.

"Do you hear that?" he demanded hoarsely, making her listen to his rapid heartbeat. "No one does that to me. Do you understand? _No one._" He sighed in disgust and kissed her hair. "I hate you, sometimes."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry."

But he shook his head. "Don't be."

"You could make her wait…" she suggested hopefully. "Y'know? Make her wait. She deserves it."

"No… She's causing too much trouble. The sooner I take care of her, the better. For everyone involved," he added with a pointed look at her as he forced himself out of her embrace and off of the couch.

"Yeah… You're right… When d'you think you'll be back?"

He smirked a little, winding a belt with canisters of fear toxin around his waist before securing the atomizer to his wrist.

"_Patience _is a virtue, Harleen."

"And you're an atheist, Jonny. You don't get to talk about virtues." With a small sigh, she laid back down, one arm dangling over the edge of the couch. "How long d'you think you'll be?"

"Hopefully not very," he replied, gazing at her sternly. "Do _not_ _move _from that spot, understood? I expect you to be here when I come back."

"Yessir, Dr. Crane. Jonny. Bunny rabbit." She pursed her lips together like she was trying to contain a giggle and he glared at her.

"I'll make you pay for that."

She licked her lips.

"I look forward to it. Can I at least keep the sweater vest?" She plucked at the hem of the dark maroon garment, tilting her head up at him questioningly.

"I suppose," he consented with a sigh, slipping on his suit jacket and heading for the door. "But just for that, you're not allowed to start without me."

"But—"

"_No._"

"But…it's like…an itch you can't scratch," she whined, one finger tracing circles on her left breast. She was biting her lip and holding her legs together, reminding him oddly of a child who needed to use the bathroom but was being told to hold it. Much as her suffering was a turn on, he could not allow himself to become any more distracted by it. He grit his teeth and forced his gaze away.

"Think of it as an experiment. I'm testing your level of endurance."

Harleen pouted but gave him a nod, and he was out the door without another word, trying desperately not to think about how he had been able to see her hardened nipple through the fabric of his sweater vest. Damn it, wasn't the material supposed to have been thicker than that?

He did his best to make himself look presentable, smoothing back his hair (trying not to think of how gratifying it was to pull Harleen's hair) as he hurried down the hall to room 266, cursing the assistant DA to a lifetime of misery, torment, and sexual frustration.

Damn that woman…

He sighed harshly, retrieving his glasses from the inside pocket of his coat.

One thing was certain: This was the last time that Rachel Dawes was going to bother him.

* * *

Well that certainly turned out to be a lot more serious and a lot less funny than I'd originally intended. Good thing I listed this as being horror/humor/tragedy/romance.

Notes

Horror/Humor/Tragedy/Romance – I wasn't really sure what to list this as, since it seemed to fall under so many categories. The beginning is definitely meant to be somewhat disturbing, hence 'horror,' but the fact that it all turns out to be Harley and Jonny role playing (hopefully) makes it humorous. And I'm hesitant to come out and call it a romance because, let's face it, Jonathan isn't exactly a romantic guy, though there are some slight romantic undertones toward the end. And I'd definitely call it a tragedy because this all takes place right before Jonathan gets doused with his own toxin and loses his mind, and I feel kinda bad about bringing him down like that. But of course, the biggest tragedy is that nobody gets laid. So, so sad.

…naked save for a pair of pink satin underwear and his sweater vest – because the image of Harley wearing nothing but one of Jonny's sweater vests cracks me up. Okay, so for some inexplicable reason, the sweater vest alone cracks me up. But you know how in movies and books the girlfriend always seems to put on her boyfriend's shirt after they're done having sex? Yeah, it's kinda like that, only with a sweater vest. And they haven't had sex yet. Damn Rachel…

"No one does that to me." – not gonna lie, I'm kinda pleased with myself for this entire bit. It's so ambiguous, I think, because it seems like a very romantic thing to do and his saying that no one does that to him implies that she's special because she's the only one who can make him feel that way. _But_…because it's Jonathan, we know that he isn't doing and saying this stuff to be sweet and romantic. He's doing it because he's frustrated that he's actually turned on by somebody. I kinda get the impression that what doesn't follow the second "No one" is a line about how she should be grateful that she can get away with making him feel like this because he really would like to kill her, except he's too involved, now.

"Yessir. Dr. Crane. Jonny. Bunny rabbit." – in case anyone was wondering, I forgot to mention in my notes for _Lights Out _that the calling each other 'Jonny' and 'Harleen' thing will be explained in Chapter IX of _Fear and Malice_. And her calling him 'bunny' in this story is just something random that I came up with for no reason other than she has a petname for the Joker, therefore she should have one for Jonathan when they're dating, too. At least 'bunny' is somewhat fitting, as opposed to 'puddin,'' since Jonny's kinda cute and twitchy like a rabbit (even if he doesn't really resemble one :-P). Plus, there's the whole 'he-had-a-stuffed-rabbit-as-a-kid' thing, even though it'll be a while before Harley knows anything about his past.

**Disclaimer****: **You all know by now that I don't own Jonathan or Harley, right? That's what I thought.


End file.
